


Out Of My Head, Into The Clear

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bottom!Charles, Commitment, Consensual Kink, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Hurt Charles, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Love, M/M, Safewords, Sounding, Tea, Trust, panicked!Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kink meme that wanted someone actually using a safeword, followed by hurt/comfort. Contains panicked!Erik, hurt!Charles, BDSM themes, explicit sex, sounding, experimentation, hurt/comfort, cuddling, tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Of My Head, Into The Clear

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for consensual kinky sex? And the boys working things out in the aftermath. Title and opening lines courtesy of, as always, the Foo Fighters; this time, “Rope.”

_I thought I’d save my breath for you_   
_give me some rope, I'm coming loose_   
_I'm hanging on you_   
_give me some rope, I'm coming loose_   
_I'm pulling for you now_   
_give me some rope, I'm coming_   
_out of my head, into the clear_

 

It’s about trust. It always is.

That’s a word with so many layers, Erik thinks, watching Charles watch him, eyes endlessly blue as the depths of space, clear horizons with no clouds in sight.

It’s an odd kind of clarity, but Erik understands.

Charles doesn’t move, doesn’t shiver, against the backdrop of his blue satin sheets, sinfully opulent against his skin. He doesn’t move because, in part, he can’t: Erik’s holding him there, arms stretched up above his head, fastened in place by handcuffs that shine like jewelry against pale skin.

There are matching cuffs around his ankles, too. Charles had looked at him, a bit surprised, at that one—normally one set is enough, or, sometimes, none at all, just the sound of Erik’s voice, and the acceptance of command—but they haven’t done this for a while, haven’t walked along that glittering path for far too long, and Erik wants to see how many steps further they can go.

The other reason Charles doesn’t move is simple: Erik hasn’t told him that he can.

The first time had been an accident, almost a joke: Charles can be a terrible tease, in the bedroom, and he’d been driving Erik absolutely insane, talented lips and teeth and tongue moving busily and then stopping, and Erik had finally lost control, had flipped Charles over on his back and yanked wire hangers out of the closet without looking and pinned him to the mattress, strands of metal crisscrossing golden freckles like entwining ribbon, and those laughing sapphire eyes had gone all enormous with something that wasn’t fear at all.

He’d asked, silently, _are you sure?_ And Charles had whispered, astonished but unashamed, _yes, Erik, please_.

So now they’re here. In the quiet and welcoming night, lamplight spilling amber warmth across Charles’s skin, catching in his eyelashes when he blinks.

“Charles,” he says, out loud, “are you comfortable?”

Charles thinks about that for a second. “If you mean am I uncomfortable, then, no, I’m fine. I am curious, though.”

Truthful, as always; that’s been one of the rules from the start. If Erik asks, Charles answers. If Charles is the one who asks for anything, needs anything, Erik will listen. Always.

“Good. And I don’t mind you being curious. But I’m still not going to tell you.” He sits down on the bed, next to Charles, who turns his head to hold onto eye contact. “Safeword? Pick something you can remember. Easily.”

“Safeword? Seriously?” But Erik can see the slight widening of those eyes, the flush of desire. Can hear the breathless edge to that question: Charles is thinking about what Erik might have in mind, and the eagerness echoes in the air around them. The antique bed, the sleek sheets, even the handcuffs hum with it.

“Seriously. Please.”

“Hmm. All right, beagle.” _And please touch me now._

“Charles Darwin references? Now?” _Not yet._

“You did say I should pick something I could remember.” _Erik, I want you_.

“So I did.” _I know you do. And I will take care of you, I promise_. He does touch Charles, then, running one fingertip lightly along his chest, across that stomach, dotted with golden freckles and not quite as firm as Charles would like—Erik can feel the edge of embarrassment, at that. Charles perpetually thinks he needs to lose five pounds, and he probably could if he really wanted to, but he never gets around to it. And Erik doesn’t mind.

_Oh, so you like me fat?_

“You are not fat.” He tugs on the cuffs, not sharply, but enough to make the metal bite into skin. Charles moans. _Erik—_

_You are beautiful._

_I am not._

Charles is far too articulate, at the moment. And far too inclined to argue with him. Clearly something needs to be done.

He lets his fingers drift back up to Charles’s face. Trails them against the curve of one cheek, down to those lips, so fantastically tempting and a little wet because Charles has been licking them, anticipating, when he thinks that Erik can’t see. Charles opens his mouth, and lets Erik slide the fingers inside, tongue caressing them, one by one.

And then he takes them back out, and walks them, gleaming with slickness, down to Charles’s cock, already needy and hard for him. Touches, but only barely, a featherweight of pressure against sensitive skin.

Charles whimpers. Erik doesn’t bother to hold back the smug expression. Definitely beautiful. “I think,” he says, into the listening night, “that you need more. That you can take more. For me.”

 _Please_ , Charles thinks back at him, voicelessly.

“Tell me what you want, then.”

Charles blinks, because that’s a new request: usually Erik just goes ahead, working mostly on instinct, listening to the responses, remembering what Charles has enjoyed from previous occasions. And he could do that now, of course. Could push Charles until they’re both panting and dizzy and desperate for release. But it’s not just about each of them getting off. They both know that.

More, then.

“Charles,” he says, softly, but letting impatience creep into his tone, “I’m waiting.”

_I—I want you. I want you to—_

“No. Out loud.” Which will be harder, he knows. Telepathy is easy, here. Too easy for Charles to just turn the emotions loose. Words require control.

Charles swallows. Blinks again. “Erik…all right. I want—I need you to—I need to be able to feel you. After. To know I’m yours. Completely. Please.”

“Excellent.” Not quite as specific as he’d been thinking, but that’s all right; Charles is already closer to that splendid incoherence than he’d expected.

Charles spends so much of his time reinforcing and building his control. It’s necessary, of course; one unconsidered suggestion, one tired slip-up of power, and Charles would have the world lining up for his every command. Could probably get every single member of the human race to bring him cups of tea, if he happened to broadcast the fact that he was thirsty.

And that image _is_ amusing, and Erik does nearly smile—really, what would Charles do in that situation? Doubtless try to consume every last sip, for fear he’d offend someone—and it’s vastly entertaining to picture. But beneath that, it’s chillingly possible. And Charles knows that, too.

Charles can be impulsive, of course. Overconfident, irritatingly enthusiastic, instantly convinced that any decision he’s come to must be the right one and should be acted upon right away. But where people go wrong is in thinking that impulsive is the same as careless. It isn’t.

Everything Charles does is done with care. Erik knows this the way he knows his own name, or the sound of Charles’s heartbeat, in the sanctuary of the night.

This is why Charles needs these moments, though. Why Charles needs Erik—one reason Charles needs Erik, though it’s not the only reason, as Charles often reminds him under the light of day. But Charles needs someone who can carry him over that brink, who isn’t afraid of his darknesses, who can let him surrender that iron-clad control for a short while, a brief ellipsis in time.

Erik knows about iron. And he doesn’t mind darkness. And he will hold Charles through the implosions and the surrenders and, yes, the submissions, Erik’s desires and commands and controls replacing Charles’s own. And then, as gently as he can, he’ll put them both back together. With care.

Charles, right now, is trying very hard to be good and behave himself and hold still until given an order. But the tension keeps building, with each second in which Charles waits and expects and needs and Erik doesn’t move to offer him relief.

Charles breaks first. He always does.

They both count on that, of course. Erik’s patience has been well-honed by the long years and the determined missions, tuned to a fine point like the blade of a stiletto, and Charles, when he wants something very badly, has never been good at waiting.

But, Erik thinks now, even if things were different, he’d still win, at this particular game. Because he’s doing this for Charles. So of course he could wait forever, if he needed to.

Very privately, and this is a thought he’d never imagined he might have, he’s still just a little glad he’s had so much practice with that patience, though.

This time, Charles’s capitulation comes out in a small whimper, a tiny frustrated wriggle against the restraints, and a mental plea: _Erik, please_.

Erik grins. _Not very obedient, Charles_. The answer he gets is only a wordless smile; but Charles, very deliberately, looks up at him, and then tests a slim wrist against unrelenting metal, one more time.

Ah. They’re doing that, then. He can handle that. “If you need to change positions so badly, I think you should. Over the bed.”

Charles breathes in, eyes closing at the order, and doesn’t move right away, most likely because he’s letting the recognition of Erik’s authority settle in, but Erik still can’t let him get away with the delay.

He wraps invisible fingers around the handcuffs. Yanks Charles upright. Charles gasps, startled, but then smiles again, and Erik wants to kiss him, or toss him back down into the bed and fuck him until they’re both exhausted and exhilarated, or just smile back, but none of those are the goal in this scenario.

Afterwards he can kiss Charles, and Charles will kiss him back, and they’ll fall asleep entwined in the luxurious embrace of Charles’s bed— _their_ bed—but not yet. Charles is asking him for something more.

“Making me wait, Charles?”

Charles breathes “no,” in response, topaz light from the bedside lamp limning the contours of those lips, as he speaks the acknowledgement. And does move, then, gracefully rearranging himself the way he knows that Erik likes, hips lifted and presented for the first impact.

He could employ something else—they have paddles, smooth and black and eager, waiting in the closet—but he gazes at Charles, stretched out over the bed for him, and chooses to use only his hand. Skin meets skin, intimately connecting; he hears Charles moan again, a sound that might be his name, or _more_ , or some other word entirely. The golden freckles hide themselves behind the first bloom of pinkness, the darkening marks and handprints and brightnesses that tell them both that Charles is, indisputably, his.

He pauses, for a second. Leaves the hand resting in place, extra weight against tingling flesh. Leans over and whispers, “Mine,” and feels Charles shiver, everywhere, at the word.

When he thinks it’s enough, when Charles is moaning almost continuously, little gasping sounds muffled by the sheets, and all that skin is hot against his hand, he stops. Says, “up,” and Charles takes that as the order it is, even though he can barely keep his balance when he moves.

Erik wants to touch him, but doesn’t, as Charles eases himself back down onto the bed. If he lets himself touch Charles right now, all the fireworks will go off at once, the explosions he knows are simmering right there, beneath his own skin, as well as in the liquid-sapphire eyes that gaze back at him, burningly compliant.

Instead he uses the cuffs, guiding with gentle nudges; Charles goes willingly, almost languidly, eyes a little distant. When reddened skin collides with the satin sheets, he gasps, and writhes, all over, helplessly, as if he can’t decide whether to flinch away or embrace the sensation. Erik whispers, “Shh, it’s all right, you’re all right, you’re doing so well,” and Charles shivers again, and then goes still, relaxing.

He wants, desperately, to take Charles right now, to cover that pliant body with his own, to slide inside, knowing that Charles would open up for him so easily, no resistance at all, not anymore. Patience, he thinks, one more time, and mentally clings to the concept with all ten fingernails.

He reaches into the drawer next to the bed, lifting the contents out with a thought. Charles keeps their lube in metallic bottles, because Charles thinks of these small details, and Erik collects that, and, also, something else. Two things, in fact, but one of them is something Charles won’t be expecting.

Charles does know about the steel dildo—they’ve very enjoyably made use of it before—but those morning-glory eyes are closed, for just a moment, and he’s not exactly aware of his surroundings, any longer, so the first glide of it inside him comes as a surprise.

The eyes flick open, all infinite jewel-shaded blue, and find Erik’s face, and Erik murmurs, the phrase in between a question and a command, “Still all right?” and Charles nods.

“Good.” Deeper, then. Faster. Stretching Charles out around the invasion, making him tremble with it, on the edge of the supernova.

 _Erik—_ Charles gasps, and Erik finds that perfect spot and presses the hardness up against it, unyieldingly, and Charles loses all his words, shuddering uncontrollably, hips rocking forward to meet the intrusion. _Erik, please—I need—please—_

“Not yet.” He lets the shining metal slip almost all the way out, at that, and Charles whimpers and tries to thrust his hips upwards, begging for more. “You know that rule. You don’t get to come until I say you can.”

 _Erik_ , Charles breathes one more time, and then there’s just sensation, the lingering sparkle of pain and exquisite pleasure, waves of euphoria that Erik can feel as if it were his own, radiating outward like impossible sunbeams in the night.

And this is what Charles needs from Erik, of course. The knowledge that he can let go, that he can just _be_ , that Erik will catch him. It’s about trust, he thinks again. About Charles trusting Erik to make him feel good, to make him _feel_.

And trust is a word with so many layers. Because this is what Erik needs, too: someone who does trust him, who comprehends everything that Erik’s capable of and still offers himself up for this, freely, unreservedly, without hesitation, with pure joyous love.

Erik finds himself amazed and humbled by that offering, every single time. He knows how badly he could hurt Charles, with a thought, with an action, with any one of his various abilities, superhuman and not. Charles knows all that too, but believes, in a space beyond questioning, that Erik never will.

And Erik can’t argue against that conviction, even though he ought to try. But he just can’t allow all that trust to be misplaced, somehow. Can’t look into those painfully blue eyes and tell all that certainty that it’s wrong. So he never does.

So he attempts, soundlessly, with every action and each unspoken thought, to say thank you, and lets Charles make him a better person than he knows himself to be.

On the subject of actions, he does have something in mind. Charles is still waiting, shivering in place with the fading starbursts of the near-orgasm, and Erik could keep him here forever and just watch, but he’s got a plan and he enjoys seeing his plans fulfilled. Well-executed campaigns, after all, are always satisfying. And the double meaning of satisfaction, in this case, is definitely implied.

“Charles,” he asks, very quietly, but firmly, “can you hear me?”

There’s a pause, almost long enough for Erik to worry, but then he gets another tiny nod. Good. Charles is still here, or here enough. Still answering him.

“You said you wanted to feel me. To feel more. I think you ought to get what you asked for, don’t you?”

There’s a whisper of indrawn breath, at that one; those spectacular eyes are a little unfocused, inundated with sensation, pain, ecstasy, surrender. But they do find his, and Erik feels his own breath catch, not quite making it out of his lungs, at the expression.

“All right, then.” He coaxes the dildo back into place, with what he knows is agonizing slowness; Charles whimpers, at the renewed presence. “You are beautiful, you know. Like this, so stretched, so full, for me. But not only like this. All the time.” Charles is in no condition to protest, this time. So the statement has to be accepted as true, by default; and Erik, clearly, wins. “You’re not done, though. Do you know what this is?”

The lamplight, obligingly, glints off the thin line of metal. Practically audible punctuation for the moment.

Charles needs a moment to process the sight, and then the eyes widen with shocked comprehension, and the panting breaths come a little faster. But he doesn’t say no, or stop, or use his ridiculous choice of a safeword.

So they can proceed. And Erik does.

They’ve never tried this before, never even discussed it, and he’s a bit nervous, though perhaps not as nervous as Charles should be. Then again, judging from the way those eyes are looking at him, Charles is possibly beyond being nervous, beyond everything except those shimmering and glorious silences, faraway places where Erik can’t follow, but is allowed to see, in that gaze, from here.

When he brings the metal tip of the sound, shining wetly with even more lube, up to Charles’s cock, tracing lines across all that aching hardness, he gets a sudden flicker of metaphor, an image, falling out of Charles’s thoughts and into his own: cometary fire, streaking vividly through the sensuous velvet darkness of the sky.

He forgets how to breathe, for a second. Or maybe that’s Charles. Or both of them.

He slips the sound inside, gradually. Penetration, where penetration is never invited to go. Filling Charles up in that most vulnerable of spaces, with the metal that sings back to him, alluringly, a hum that he can feel reverberating in his bones. Millimeter by millimeter. More.

There are tears in those incredible eyes now, the ocean depths escaping their boundaries to splash down astonished cheeks. Under the dampness, the freckles stand out more brightly, constellations of gold-dust and soft skin. The tear-tracks connect all the shining dots, like artwork, like beauty. This is Charles relinquishing every last ounce of control. Being Erik’s. Completely.

He says, knowing that Charles might not hear the words but will pick up the emotion, “Charles, I love you,” and pushes a little deeper, one last time. The handcuffs chime as Charles twists trapped arms against them, entire body convulsing with the need to move, to come, to expel the intruder, to find _release_. Erik’s own head spins with everything, with the sensations Charles is echoing back at him, with the realization that Charles hasn’t said no to this, or to him, yet. With the song of metal, inside Charles everywhere now, and outside, too, all of those restraints still imprisoning every limb.

He’s pretty certain he’s going to explode on the spot if he tries anything else, but he has to, because all that metal is beckoning, hallucinogenic and disorienting, as if the entire world, himself and Charles and the blue satin sheets and the aged wood of the bed, all exist in some sort of luscious dream, every sense heightened and drawn out to impossible depths.

He taps at the metal, because it wants him to. Makes it all vibrate.

Charles screams. Not out loud, because Charles doesn’t have the air left for that, between all the breathless pants, infinitesimal inhales that can’t be enough to battle back the waves of sensation. In their heads. _Erik please please I can’t I love you but I can’t please let me please I need to—_

It’s not their safeword, but it’s close. Too close for Erik’s liking.

With one thought, he slips that torturous thin line of metal free, and hears Charles sobbing with relief, and he says _Now, you can come now_ , and Charles is already there, arms and legs tugging helplessly against the restraints, eyes falling shut with the anguished rush of liberation, heat pulsing out across his stomach in lines of white lightning.

And Erik needs him now, needs to bury himself inside Charles and feel all that release against his own skin like the electric eruption of thunderstorms. So he finds that length of steel that’s still buried inside Charles, in that space where Erik wants to be, and starts to slide it out again.

But Charles is still shaking and Erik’s own control is fraying around the corners and he loses concentration, for a fatal split second, and the solid metal rubs cruelly against a too-sensitive spot one more time, stroking inexorably over that throbbing collection of nerves.

Even though he catches himself instantly and stops and pulls that punishing weight out and away, he does it too fast, clumsy with need and concern. The world goes blank and white around them both and he hears Charles gasp, finding one last word at the brink of the looming cataclysm, _beagle_.             

Erik freezes.

In the stillness, the universe collapses.

He’s hurt Charles. He’s caused Charles pain. Real unalloyed pain, not tangled up with the golden alleviation of pleasure. He’s _hurt Charles_.

He can’t even form the next thought. Charles trusts him. Trusted him. Will probably never trust him again. The apocalypse gets a little darker, at the realization of what he’s just lost.

The room isn’t noiseless. The old walls of the mansion creak once, suddenly, making their contribution to the disruption. And Charles is crying, not loudly, but without stopping, as if he can’t keep everything inside. Of course he can’t; Erik’s just blown all his walls apart.

 _Charles_ , he whispers. The word is too insubstantial to mean anything, compared to what he’s just done; it must be, because Charles tries to answer and then just shakes his head and keeps his eyes closed, tears leaving lazily ominous mementos over pale skin.

Charles trembles, in place, and the handcuffs join in with their mocking silvery voices. Erik, shocked into action by the reminder, releases all the restraints with one petrified and despairing impulse; Charles curls up into a tiny quivering ball, hair falling into his face, and then doesn’t move.

Charles is hurting and someone needs to do something and Erik forces his lungs to work and whispers, “Charles, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I love you, can you hear me, are you all right,” and then thinks very blasphemous obscenities at himself in German. Obviously Charles isn’t all right. Idiotic question.

_I don’t think even you can manage your last suggestion, there, you know…_

_Charles! Oh thank god—you—I am so sorry, Charles, I—_ He starts to reach out, to put his arms around those shaking shoulders, and then hesitates. What if Charles doesn’t want to be touched? What if Charles doesn’t want to be touched by Erik?

_You can. Please._

Short words. Brief phrases, as if Charles is having to pick them carefully out of the maelstrom. Almost not words at all, but pulses of raw wistfulness: _please/want you/want your arms around me/Erik_.

Erik wants to be, but can’t let himself be, encouraged by that.

He does collect Charles into his arms, cautiously, and holds him there. They’re both quaking with the aftershocks, but, slowly, Charles’s arms creep up to hold him, too.

_I’m all right. I think._

_You are not._

_I am._ Charles sounds a little more coherent now, even if the words aren’t at all convincing _. Honestly I am. It’s not as much pain as—it just felt overwhelming. Too much. I couldn’t—I’m sorry._

_WHAT?!_

_I’m—_

_Don’t apologize!_

_Sorry!_

_Charles—!_ He shoves down the frightened exasperation and piles heavy weights on top of it. Becoming angry at Charles, in this minute, won’t do them any good. _Stop that. Please_.

_Oh…I see. All right, I won’t. But it wasn’t your fault, either._

_Of course it was._

_No, it wasn’t. You certainly didn’t do it on purpose—_

Erik’s interjection, at that point, is as profane as it is definitive.

_Well, then. We’re all right. And I love you._

_I love you. And I’m so sorry._ As if the words, so trite and overused, can help mend whatever he’s broken. Physically, emotionally.

The artificial yellow lamplight isn’t enough, anymore. It’s losing to all the shadows in the room.

“Erik,” Charles says, out loud, into his shoulder, and Erik is so surprised to actually hear that voice that no responses present themselves right away. Charles makes a noise that’s almost, possibly, amused, at that.

“This is what safewords are for, isn’t it? Why you asked that I choose one?” _And you did stop. As soon as I said it._

“Yes…you shouldn’t’ve needed to, though. You should never need to.” _Of course I did!_

“No, but that is the point, right? To ensure that no one does get hurt? I’d say it worked, then.” _It’s like trapeze artists, you know._

“I’m not certain we have the same definition of things that work.” _You…might have to explain that one_.

“Like safety nets. They’re always there, and you assume they’ll work, and then someday someone falls off the trapeze, and then you _know_ the net works, because the person ends up safe.” _It’s not a perfect analogy, granted, but you do know what I mean._

“Maybe. I maybe know what you mean.” _I still wish we hadn’t had to test your safety net, Charles_.

“If it helps, I was quite enjoying myself, up until then.” _I know. But I’m all right. We’re all right. And I love you._

“I love you, as well.” _I did think you were. I didn’t…I’ll be more careful, with you, next time. I promise_.

“Next time, hmm?” _And I’ll try to reassure you sooner. I just couldn’t talk, right away. But I do still want to do this. I still want this. With you_.

“Next time—not any time soon, Charles. If _ever_.” He's not all that certain _he_ can be all right doing this again, envisioning that next time. But...Charles isn't lying, about wanting this; Erik can tell. _You mean that_.

“Oh, please. I’m fine.” _Yes. I do._

“Well…not for a few days, at least,” Erik says, out loud, and he knows that Charles understands all the words he doesn’t say, then, as well.

“Yes, agreed…” Charles sighs. “Well, now that we’ve resolved that, we should probably shower.” And starts to sit up, and then winces, freckles suddenly stranded against newly pale skin. Erik feels the world drop out from beneath his feet, even though he’s technically still holding onto Charles on the bed. Gone. Just like that. Right over the edge of the abyss.

_Charles!!_

_All right, maybe a bit sore, then…_

“Don’t move. Please. Lie back down.”

“Oh, fine…not moving sounds like a brilliant idea to me…”

Charles nestles into the supportive pillows and the comforting sheets and Erik feels his own heart flinging itself against his chest as if it’s trying to batter itself to death. Might be a fitting way to go. Poetic justice, or something like it.

“Can I—what can I do? To help.”

“You can relax. I can hear everything you’re thinking and you’re giving me a headache. I’ll be fine; it just surprised me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“If I’m not allowed to apologize again, neither are you.” Charles yawns. Then shivers. “I think I’m actually a bit cold.”

That makes some sort of sense; the onslaught of sensation has ebbed away, and Charles is likely belatedly registering all the reaction. Or, alternately, is hurting enough that he’s in some sort of shock. Charles would never admit it, if he were.

“Overreacting, aren’t you? I’m not suffering from shock, Erik, I’m just cold.”

“Are you sure?” Charles can’t possibly be a good judge of his own condition, right now.

“Yes. Are you going to come here, or are you going to make me be cold alone?”

“I,” Erik says, and looks at him, so small and fragile in the nest of blankets. It’s deceptive; Charles isn’t fragile. He’s the strongest person Erik knows, and not just in terms of his mutant telepathic potential. And Erik nevertheless has managed to wound him.

“I can…yes. I will. In a minute. But I have to—I should go. Make you tea. You like tea.” Tea is warm. Charles needs warmth. And Erik needs air, abruptly. The ancient mansion walls are looming, closing in around them, and the once-welcoming space is filling up with the knowledge that Charles is in pain. There’s not enough room for the two of them plus all of Erik’s guilt, towering and implacable.

“You don’t have to,” Charles says, and Erik isn’t certain whether that means the tea or the guilt, “but if you want to, then I won’t refuse.” Of course Charles understands. And won’t ask that he stay.

“I’ll come back.” _I just have to…I will come back. With tea. For you_. He just has to…do something. Anything. Some kind of action. Something concrete, that he can plan out, meticulously, and complete according to that plan. Without adding any more pain to the world.

“I know you will.” _I know_. That damnable certainty again. And he still can’t argue against it.

He leaves Charles buried beneath every blanket he can find and grabs his pants from the floor and runs downstairs to the kitchen and finds tea and a mug and the kettle and then runs out of things to do and stands there impotently waiting for the water to heat itself up.

There’s no one else in the kitchen, not at this hour, though there is a solitary coffee mug, abandoned on the table. Hank’s been here, evidently. No doubt working into the night. Other than the mutely aloof coffee mug, Erik’s alone.

Except he’s not alone, not really. Charles is always just a thought away, though he won’t come in unless Erik invites him. Because Charles has morals, and tries not to harm people.

He stares at his hands. They shake, tiny tremors that he can’t recall ever seeing from his own appendages before. He’s always been good with his hands. Precise. Accurate. Deadly.

He’s good at harming people. Obviously.

The coffee mug, secure in its spot on the table, stares at him accusingly. “You weren’t even _there_ ,” Erik says to it, and then feels incredibly stupid. Vindictively, he washes it and puts it away, where it can’t glare at him anymore.

At that point he doesn’t have anything to look at, though, so he’s forced to contemplate his own thoughts. They’re not very kind.

He’s left Charles upstairs alone. He shouldn’t’ve done that. Charles is cold and had asked him to come be warm beneath all the blankets and instead Erik’d left him there and gone downstairs to make tea.

He looks at the teakettle, this time, just for an object to focus on. He’s never claimed to be a good provider of comfort. Not much call for that, in his life, so far.

Despite all the words, Charles probably hasn’t forgiven him. Or probably has, because Charles forgives everyone everything, because Charles is an idiotic optimist when it comes to other people. But Charles shouldn’t forgive him.

He’s _hurt_ Charles.

All at once the kettle shrieks at him, shrill and demanding, and he jumps, and then scowls at it, threateningly. It ignores him. It ought not to; for all it knows, he might injure it, too.

Except he can’t injure Charles’s teakettle, can’t break anything else in Charles’s life, so instead he just pours out the tea, and adds sugar because that’s how Charles likes his tea, strong and sweet enough that Erik can taste it when they kiss, and Erik always mutters dire remarks about sugary indulgences and secretly loves the taste, because it says _Charles_ to his mind.

Charles probably knows that. Charles knows all his secrets and claims to love him anyway.

He remembers, at the last second, that they also have pineapple scones, in a tin on the counter. Charles likes pineapple. Maybe he’s hungry. Maybe he’ll appreciate the gesture. Maybe Erik can still fix the night, somehow, some way. With pineapple scones.

He stands there barefoot in the deserted kitchen, in the middle of the night, and takes a deep breath. Charles needs him; he can focus on that. Whatever Charles needs.

When he makes it back upstairs, clutching edible objects as if they might be life-preservers, he stops in the doorway for a moment, and just gazes at the bed, while his heart refuses to work properly.

Charles has gone to sleep, still practically invisible under the mound of fluffy blankets. He’s got one arm cradling a pillow next to his face, normally exuberant hair flopping over the pillowcase in every direction, and those wide sapphire eyes are closed. He looks utterly worn out, and defenseless, and very young, and Erik knows that Charles is none of those things but can’t help thinking them anyway.

He’s not even breathing, in the doorway, but he must have made some sort of sound, physical or mental, because Charles stirs, under the heap of bedclothes, and pushes himself up on an elbow. The topmost blanket coils itself around his shoulders protectively. _Erik?_

 _I love you._ Those are the only words he has left. “Also…tea?”

“I love you, too. And also tea, of course.” _Come here?_

Erik crosses to the bed and sits down next to him and offers the mug, and Charles grins appreciatively and takes it from him, and then laughs. “Scones?”

“I…thought you might be hungry.”

“I’m never going to say no to _anything_ involving pineapple. As you very emphatically know. And when I said come here I meant really come here. I missed you.” The eyes dance up at him, over tea-scented steam, and Erik breathes in and out and says, “Move over, then, I don’t know how such a tiny person can occupy so much of our bed, honestly, it’s some sort of very bizarre secondary mutation, Charles,” and then slides into bed beside him while Charles starts laughing again.

He puts an arm around Charles. Pulls him closer. Senses the absolute contentment that Charles is projecting now, comfortable and calm. Some of that calm spills over. Enough to make Erik’s recalcitrant heart stop pounding and settle back down.

Charles puts an entire scone in his mouth in one bite, and then attempts to talk, and then gives up. _Thank you._

“Please don’t.”

_Why not? You’re being entirely wonderful._

“Yes, but I—”

_Here, you should have one, too. Otherwise I’ll eat them all. And become even more fat and lazy than I already am._

“You are n—” Charles interrupts the automatic protest by holding a scone in front of his mouth. Erik looks at it, and then at Charles, and then gives in and eats it out of those elegant fingers. _You are not fat!_

_Lazy, though?_

Erik splutters indignantly at that one, until he realizes that Charles is laughing. _Not fair._

_But entertaining. You should’ve seen your expression._

Erik just grumbles inarticulately, because he doesn’t have the right words for how he feels about that. Charles _can_ laugh, in bed with him. Can be amused and happy and cheerful, again. These wounds aren’t irreparable, after all.

Around them, the bedroom, the heirloom furniture, the whole world, observes Charles laughing and, on cue, warms up as well. Of course.

Charles takes a sip of tea. Swallows. “Feeling better?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

“Yes, but I know I’m all right, or nearly. And so do you, if you would think about it. How’re you?”

Erik thinks about that question, this time. Tightens his arm around the reassuring solidity of Charles beside him, and studies the answering smile, quick and lucent and true as the starlight, beyond the window, outside. “Better.”

“Good.” Charles puts his head on Erik’s shoulder; the expressive hair sidles up and wraps itself around the base of Erik’s neck, as if it wants to get closer, too. “And what you were thinking, earlier…whatever I need, you said.” _You also said OUR bed, just now._

“You heard that?” _You—I did—if you don’t want—I can leave if you—_ The panic comes back, leaping right into the conveniently devastating new hole opening itself up inside his heart. _Charles, I love you_.

“Only bits. I wasn’t trying to overhear, but you were panicking rather loudly, and I did hear my name, so I couldn’t help listening for a second.” _I love you, as well. And of course I don’t want you to leave; don’t be ridiculous. I was attempting to say—not clearly enough, obviously—that what I need is you._

That friendly curl of hair is still embracing his neck and those impossibly blue eyes are looking into his so earnestly and the midnight world stands motionless around them, clear and crystalline, a moment trapped in amber. And Charles smiles, so Erik kisses him, there in the imperfect untidy mess that is _their_ bed, the tastes of pineapple and sugar and hot tea on both their tongues, and the only person he’s ever wanted in his arms.

Charles kisses back like he’s trying to shape the touch into a promise, as well: firm as commitment, as unquestionable truth. The hole, in Erik’s heart, inches gradually towards closure, again. _OUR bed, then._

_Always._

_You taste like tea. And sugar._

_And you enjoy that, I believe._

_Eavesdropper._ “And you are all right? You’re not—”

 _Mmm-hmm_. “I’m wonderful,” Charles says, into the kiss, and Erik says, right back, “Yes, you are,” because he’s finally, at last, starting to let himself believe the statement might be true. Because it is true, he thinks, not just about this moment, but on every unmentioned level as well.

Because they’re tangled up together in the giant bed, among all the giddily disheveled pillows and the remains of Charles’s blanket-nest, and he has his arms around Charles, and Charles is happy there.

Because they’ve tested their safety net, and it’s holding. Because he has, miraculously, managed to do or say the right thing, sometime, somewhere along the way. Because he _can_ take care of Charles, and Charles will let him.

After a while, Charles falls asleep again, in his arms this time, still smiling, as if he knows that Erik will be there, watching, while he sleeps, and will be there, waiting, when he wakes up.

And Erik will. Because it’s about trust, between them. It always is. And, in all those next times to come, it always will be.


End file.
